


Of alien bloods

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:10:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something in her slides effortlessly back into place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of alien bloods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AngelicTouch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelicTouch/gifts).



> Inspired by GA's visit to Jodhpur, India, earlier this year. Title from [this poem](http://academyofamericanpoets.cmail20.com/t/ViewEmail/y/D880C833A67DE47E/D0EF9A5229D36EF92C69F821C9DCC086).

Jodhpur’s days are pleasantly warm in July, its nights unexpectedly cool as only nights in the desert can be.

“Built by the Rajputs more than five centuries ago,” her guide says when they stop in front of the fort. “They fought off the Mughals for decades, but one always loses to invaders in the end. To newness. Colonization’s not as bad as it’s made out to be. The British gave this country railways, bridges. Education in English.”

She squints against the midday sun and imagines nothing but sand around the structure, famous now for having been featured as the backdrop in a thousand films, ridiculously beautiful people dancing in front of it, history a backdrop to the entertainment that’s become the opium of the masses, not just in this country but also the ones she calls home.

She visits the Ajmer Dargah that weekend. A few years ago a bomb went off at the heart of the shrine, her guide tells her. He’s from the Chisti family, guardians of the holy place for centuries, the mantle of responsibility passed down through generations, never shared with outsiders.

There are many doorways into the shrine. “Many entrances,” the guide says. “But only one exit.”

Later, on the train back to Jodhpur, she discusses the guide’s words with her companions. “He said there were many exits but only one entrance,” someone insists, and she begins to doubt her memory, wonders if her recollections are wrong somehow, colored by perception, by what she wants to hear.

 _My sense of unbelonging didn't worsen when I saw the fort, the dargah,_ she thinks later, composing an email in her head that will probably never get sent. _I thought of you, of us, two aliens in a strange world, drawn together by separation and longing._ She’s never going to send the mail.

There’s a mail in her inbox that night anyway, like a response to unsent thoughts. “When are you coming home?”, it asks.

“Home is where the heart is and my heart is / out traveling,” she writes back, quoting from his poetry, teasing.

“A vision of fire,” he writes back, and she laughs out loud.

“Not much of a quote if you've only read the title,” she types back. She wraps one of her author copies of the book in the most garish gift paper she can find, smiling at the thought of his reaction to the paper.

 

—

 

“Only you,” he says after he’s torn the wrapping off the gift, “would be narcissistic enough to gift me your own book.”

“Shut up and like it, Duchovny.” She smiles at him over the rim of her steaming mug of hot chocolate (liberally spiked with whiskey, of course: just the way they both like it). “I seem to remember someone sent me their book as a birthday present.”

“Guilty as charged.” He ducks his head and takes a sip of his own drink, his lips curving into a smile that looks almost genuinely sheepish.

She senses him following her gaze as she turns her head to look out the window. His eyes haven't left her ever since he walked into the cafe thirty minutes ago and slid into his seat. She’s wearing a new beige dress with a simple black sweater over her shoulders, her heavy overcoat discarded over the back of her chair in the warmth of the cafe. (It’s ‘their’ place, the one they used to frequent over weekends more than a decade ago.) She’s wearing small gold earrings and Scully’s gold chain, having forgotten to take it off after they filmed their first scene back. For a second, she almost wishes he weren't there to witness her carefully crafted appearance—he’d know the dress is new, her chocolate-colored lipstick refreshed in the washroom before his arrival, his senses attuned to changes in her appearance, her thinking.

“There were aliens in Jodhpur,” she says, and the non sequitur hangs in the air between them for a moment while David’s brow creases in confusion.

“What?”

She rummages in her bag for her phone and opens her browser, taking it to [the page she’d bookmarked](http://www.gizmodo.in/indiamodo/An-Alien-Like-Body-Found-Recently-In-Jodhpur-Does-This-Confirm-Extra-Terrestrial-Lifes-Existence/articleshow/48328634.cms).

“The Strange Case of Life Imitating Art?” he says, and she can hear the capitalized words as though he’d sketched the letters in the air.

“As Mulder’s alter ego, I thought you'd particularly appreciate it.”

“Send it to Chris,” he says with a chuckle, handing the phone back. “Maybe he’ll send us to Jodhpur for Season 64.” 

“We’re as much aliens as Mulder and Scully,” she says, baiting him. “As the aliens they chase but never catch.”

He smiles and takes another sip of his chocolate, gold highlights in his hair from the Christmas lights in the cafe. “As long as we’re the same species,” he says, and they’re speaking the same language, playing with words and watching them twist and twirl.

They walk back to the hotel in silence, boots crunching against the freshly-fallen snow.

 

—

 

They have dinner with the cast and crew that night. It’s a big reunion party, their last night together before they all go their separate ways for Christmas break before returning in January. There are people there she hasn't seen in years, many of them back to reprise their roles not only as cast but also as makeup artists, stand-ins, camera operators. Some things never change.

She finds him standing under a sprig of mistletoe, two flutes of champagne held deftly in one hand, the neck of his black turtleneck snug around his throat. He tips his head when she’s next to him, and she rises on her toes.

“Took your time,” he says when they part, his mouth a little shiny from her lip gloss. She reaches up and wipes it off with her thumb, her other hand reaching for one of the glasses of champagne.

Later, she tweets a picture and the words _Having Christmas with you, honey, is like a poke in the eye!_. David looks at her phone over her shoulder and laughs. They press a little closer together as someone starts singing ‘Deck the Halls,’ loud and drunken, and almost everyone joins in, laughter and good humor all around them. 

She hasn't prayed in a while but she sends up a silent word of gratitude, something inside her sliding effortlessly back into place, the pieces of her fitting together better than they have in years.

“Hey,” he says, his shoulder nudging hers, and she looks up and smiles reassuringly when she sees concern in his face. 

“I’m fine,” she says, knowing he’ll know she means it.

Their flutes clink together quietly. “Merry Christmas, G-woman,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> The quote is from [this poem by DD](http://duchovny.net/articles/poem.htm).


End file.
